We'll Meet Again, Page 2

  They said they found Gary terribly upset because Molly had learned he was having an affair with Annamarie Scalli.

  Cal said that Gary told him that Molly had been at their home in Cape Cod all week and wouldn’t talk to him when he called, that she slammed down the phone when she heard his voice.

  The prosecutor asked, “What was your reaction to Dr. Lasch’s confession of this affair?”

  Cal said they were deeply concerned, both for their friends’ marriage and also for the potential damage to the hospital of a scandal involving Dr. Lasch and a young nurse. Gary had assured them there would be no scandal. Annamarie was leaving town. She was planning to give up the baby for adoption. His lawyer had arranged a $75,000 settlement and confidentiality statement that she had already signed.

  Annamarie Scalli, Molly thought, that pretty, dark-haired, sexy-looking young nurse. She remembered meeting her at the hospital. Had Gary been in love with her, or was it just a casual affair that got out of hand when Annamarie became pregnant? Now she’d never know. There were so many unanswered questions. Did Gary really love me? she wondered. Or was our life together a sham? She shook her head. No. It hurt too much to think like that.

  Then Jenna had taken the stand. I know it hurts her to testify, Molly thought, but the prosecutor had subpoened her, and she had no choice.

  “Yes,” Jenna had acknowledged, her voice low and halting, “I did call Molly at the Cape on the day that Gary died. She told me that he had been involved with Annamarie and that Annamarie was pregnant. Molly was totally devastated.” Vaguely she heard what they were saying. The prosecutor asking if Molly was angry. Jenna saying Molly was hurt. Jenna finally admitted that Molly was very angry with Gary.

  “Molly, get up. The judge is leaving.”

  Philip Matthews, her lawyer, was holding her elbow, urging her to stand. He kept his hand under her arm, steadying her as they exited the courtroom. Outside, flashbulbs exploded in her face. He made her hurry through the crowd, propelling her into a waiting car. “We’ll meet your mother and father at the house,” he said as they drove away.

  Her parents had come up from Florida to be with her. They wanted her to move, to get out of the house where Gary had died, but she couldn’t do that. It was her grandmother’s present to her and she loved it. At her father’s insistence, she had agreed to at least redecorate the study. All the furniture was given away, and the room was redone from top to bottom. The heavy mahogany paneling had been stripped off, and Gary’s treasured collection of early-American furniture and art had been removed. His paintings, sculptures, carpets, oil lamps, and Wells Fargo desk along with his maroon leather couch and chairs had been replaced with a brightly patterned chintz sofa and matching love seat and bleached oak tables. Even then, the door to the study was always kept closed.

  One most valued piece in his collection, a thirty-inch-high sculpture of a horse and rider, an original Remington bronze, was still in the custody of the prosecutor’s office. That was what they said she had used to smash the back of Gary’s head.

  Sometimes, when she was sure her parents were asleep, Molly would tiptoe downstairs and stand in the doorway of the study and try to remember every detail of finding Gary.

  Finding Gary. No matter how hard she tried, when she thought back to that night, there was no single moment when she remembered talking to him or approaching him as he sat at his desk. She had no memory of picking up that sculpture, of grasping the front legs of the horse and swinging it with enough force to cave in his skull. But that’s what they said she had done.

  At home now, after another day in court, she could see the growing concern on her parents’ faces, and she could feel the increased protectiveness with which they hugged her. She stood stiffly inside their embraces, then stepped away and looked at them dispassionately.

  Yes, a handsome couple—everyone called them that. Molly knew she looked like Ann, her mother. Walter Carpenter, her father, towered over both of them. His hair was silver now. It used to be blond. He called it his Viking streak. His grandmother had been Danish.

  “I’m sure we’d all welcome a cocktail,” her father said as he led the way to the service bar.

  Molly and her mother had a glass of wine, Philip requested a martini. As her father handed it to him, he said, “Philip, how damaging was Black’s testimony today?”

  Molly could hear the forced, too-hearty tone of Philip Matthews’s answer: “I think we’ll be able to neutralize it when I get a crack at him.”

  Philip Matthews, powerful thirty-eight-year-old defense lawyer, had become a kind of media star. Molly’s father had sworn he would get Molly the best money could buy, and that comparatively young as he was, Matthews was it. Hadn’t he gotten an acquittal for that broadcasting executive whose wife was murdered? Yes, Molly thought, but they didn’t find him covered with her blood.

  She could feel the cloudiness in her head clearing a little, although she knew it would come back. It always did. But at this moment she could understand the way everything must seem to the people in the courtroom, especially to the jurors. “How much longer will the trial last?” she asked.

  “About another three weeks,” Matthews told her.

  “And then I’ll be found guilty,” she said matter-of-factly. “Do you think I am? I know that everybody else thinks I did it because I was so angry at him.” She sighed wearily. “Ninety percent of them think I’m lying about not remembering anything, and the other ten percent think I can’t remember that night because I’m crazy.”

  Aware that they were following her, she walked down the hall to the study and pushed open the door. The sense of unreality was already closing in again. “Maybe I did do it,” she said, her voice expressionless. “That week at the Cape. I remember walking on the beach and thinking how unfair it all was. How after five years of marriage and losing the first baby and wanting another one so terribly, I’d finally gotten pregnant again, then had a miscarriage at four months. Remember? You came up from Florida, Mom and Dad, because you were worried that I was so heartbroken. Then only a month after losing my child, I picked up the phone and heard Annamarie Scalli talking to Gary, and I realized she was pregnant with his child. I was so angry, and so hurt. I remember thinking that God had punished the wrong person by taking my baby.”

  Ann Carpenter put her arms around her daughter. This time Molly did not resist the embrace. “I’m so scared,” she whispered. “I’m so scared.”

  Philip Matthews took Walter Carpenter’s arm. “Let’s go into the library,” he said. “I think we’d better face reality here. I think we’re going to have to consider a plea bargain.”

  * * *

  Molly stood before the judge and tried to concentrate as the prosecutor spoke. Philip Matthews had told her the prosecutor reluctantly agreed to allow her to plead guilty to manslaughter, which carried a ten year sentence, because the one weakness in his case was Annamarie Scalli, Gary Lasch’s pregnant mistress, who had not yet testified. Annamarie had told investigators that she was home alone that Sunday night.

  “The prosecutor knows I’ll try to throw suspicion on Annamarie,” Matthews had explained to her. “She was angry and bitter at Gary, too. We might have had a crack at a hung jury, but if you were convicted, you’d be facing a life sentence. This way you’ll be out in as little as five.”

  It was her turn to say the words that were expected of her. “Your Honor, while I cannot remember that horrible night, I acknowledge that the state’s evidence is strong and points to me. I accept that the evidence has shown that I killed my husband.” It’s a nightmare, Molly thought. I will wake up soon and be home and safe.

  Fifteen minutes later after the Judge had imposed the ten year sentence she was led away in handcuffs toward the van that would transport her to Niantic Prison, the State Women’s Correctional Center.

  Five and a Half Years Later

  1

  Gus Brandt, executive producer for the NAF Cable Network, looked up from his desk at 30 Rocke
feller Plaza in Manhattan. Fran Simmons, whom he’d recently hired as an investigative reporter for the six o’clock news hour and for regular assignments to his hot new True Crime program, had just entered his office.

  “The word’s in,” he said excitedly. “Molly Carpenter Lasch is being paroled from prison. She gets out next week.”

  “She did get parole!” Fran exclaimed. “I’m so glad.”

  “I wasn’t sure you’d remember the case. You were living in California six years ago. Do you know much about it?”

  “Everything, actually. Don’t forget, I went to Cranden Academy in Greenwich, with Molly. I had the local papers sent to me throughout the trial.”

  “You went to school with her? That’s great. I want to schedule a full background story on her for the series as soon as possible.”

  “Sure. But Gus, don’t think I have an inside track with Molly,” Fran warned. “I haven’t laid eyes on her since the summer we graduated, and that was fourteen years ago. At the same time I began U. Cal, my mother moved to Santa Barbara, and I lost touch with just about everybody in Greenwich.”

  There’d actually been many reasons for both her and her mother relocating to California, leaving Connecticut as far behind as memory would allow. On the day of Fran’s graduation from the academy, her father had taken her and her mother out for a festive dinner of celebration. At the end of the meal he had toasted Fran’s future at his alma mater, kissed both of them, and then, saying that he’d left his wallet in the car, he had gone out to the parking lot and shot himself. In the next few days the reason for his suicide became apparent. An investigation quickly determined that he’d embezzled $400,000 from the Greenwich Library Building Fund drive he’d volunteered to chair.

  Gus Brandt knew that story already, of course. He’d brought it up when he came to Los Angeles to offer her the job at NAF-TV. “Look, that’s in the past. You don’t need to hide away out here in California, and besides, coming with us is the right career move for you,” he’d said. “Everyone who makes it in this business has to move around. Our six o’clock news hour is beating the local network stations, and the True Crime program is in the top ten in the ratings. Besides, admit it: you’ve missed New York.”

  Fran almost had expected him to quote the old chestnut that outside New York it’s all Bridgeport, but he hadn’t gone that far. With thinning gray hair and sloping shoulders, Gus looked every second of his fifty-five years, and his countenance carried permanently the expression of someone who had just missed the last bus on a snowy night.

  The look was deceptive, however, and Fran knew it. In fact, he had a razor-sharp mind, a proven track record for creating new shows, and a competitive streak second to none in the industry. With hardly a second thought, she’d taken the job. Working for Gus meant being on the fast track.

  “You never saw or heard from Molly after you graduated?” he asked.

  “Nope. I wrote her at the time of the trial, offering my sympathy and support, and got a form letter from her lawyer saying that while she appreciated my concern, she would not be corresponding with anyone. That was over five and a half years ago.”

  “What was she like? When she was young, I mean.”

  Fran tucked a strand of light brown hair behind her ear, an unconscious gesture that was an indication she was concentrating. An image flashed through her mind, and for an instant she could see Molly as she’d been at age sixteen, at Cranden Academy. “Molly was always special,” she said after a moment. “You’ve seen her pictures. She was always a beauty. Even when the rest of us were still gawky adolescents, she was already turning heads. She had the most incredible blue eyes, almost iridescent, plus a complexion models would kill for and shimmering blond hair. But what really impressed me was that she was always so composed. I remember thinking if she met the pope and the queen of England at the same party, she’d know how to address them and in what order. And yet, the funny part was that I always suspected that, inside, she was shy. Despite her remarkable composure, there was something tentative about her. Kind of like a beautiful bird perched at the end of a branch, poised but ready at any second to take flight.”

  She’d glide across the room, Fran thought, remembering seeing her once in an elegant gown. She looked even taller than five eight because she had such gorgeous carriage.

  “How friendly were you two?” Gus queried.

  “Oh, I wasn’t really in her orbit. Molly was part of the moneyed country club set. I was a good athlete and concentrated on sports more than on social activities. I can assure you my phone was never ringing off the hook on Friday night.”

  “As my mother would have put it, you grew up nice,” Gus said dryly.

  I was never at ease at the academy, Fran thought. There are plenty of middle-class families in Greenwich, but middle class wasn’t good enough for Dad. He was always trying to ingratiate himself with wealthy people. He wanted me to be friends with the girls who came from money or who had family connections.

  “Apart from her appearance, what was Molly like?”

  “She was very sweet,” Fran said. “When my father died and the news came out about what he had done—the embezzling and the suicide and everything—I was avoiding everyone. Molly knew I jogged every day, and early one morning she was waiting for me. She said she just wanted to keep me company for a while. Since her father had been one of the biggest donors to the library fund, you can imagine what her show of friendship meant to me.”

  “You had no reason to be ashamed because of what your father did,” Gus snapped.

  Fran’s tone became crisp. “I wasn’t ashamed of him. I was just so sorry for him—and angry too, I guess. Why did he think that my mother and I needed things? After he died, we realized how frantic he must have been in the days just before, because they were about to audit the library fund’s books, and he knew he’d be found out.” She paused, then added softly, “He was wrong to have done all that, of course. Wrong to have taken the money and wrong to think we needed it. He was weak also. I realize now he was terribly insecure. But at the same time, he was an awfully nice guy.”

  “So was Dr. Gary Lasch. He was a good administrator too. Lasch Hospital has a top-drawer reputation, and Remington Health Management isn’t like so many of the cockamamie HMOs that are going bankrupt and leaving patients and doctors high and dry.” Gus smiled briefly. “You knew Molly and you went to school with her, so that gives you some insight. Do you think she did it?”

  “There’s no question that she did it,” Fran said promptly. “The evidence against her was overwhelming, and I’ve covered enough murder trials to understand that very unlikely people ruin their lives by losing control for that one split second. Still, unless Molly changed dramatically after the time I knew her, she’d be the last person in the world I would have said was likely to kill someone. But for that very reason, I can understand why she might have blocked it out.”

  “That’s why this case is great for the program,” Gus said. “Get on it. When Molly Lasch gets out of Niantic Prison next week, I want you to be part of the reception committee welcoming her.”

  2

  A week later, the collar of her all-weather coat turned up to cover her neck, her hands shoved in her pockets, her hair covered by her favorite ski hat, Fran waited in the cluster of media people huddled at the gate of the prison on a raw March day. Her cameraman, Ed Ahearn, was beside her.

  As usual, there was grumbling; today it was about the combination of the early hour and the weather—stinging sleet, driven by gusts of icy wind. Predictably there was also a rehashing of the case that five and a half years ago had made headlines across the country.

  Fran already had taped several reports with the prison in the background. Earlier that morning she had done a live report, and as the station ran tape over her voice, she’d announced, “We are waiting outside the gate of Niantic Prison in upstate Connecticut, just a few miles from the Rhode Island border. Molly Carpenter Lasch will emerge shortly, after having
spent five and a half years behind bars following her manslaughter plea in the death of her husband, Gary Lasch.”

  Now, waiting for Molly to appear, she listened to the opinions of the others there. The consensus was that Molly was guilty as sin, was damn lucky that she’d gotten out after only five and a half years, and who was she kidding that she couldn’t remember bashing in the poor guy’s skull?

  Fran alerted the control room as she saw a dark blue sedan emerge from behind the main building of the prison. “Philip Matthews’s car is starting to leave,” she said. Molly’s attorney had arrived to pick her up a half-hour earlier.

  Ahearn turned on the camera.

  The others had spotted it too. “It’s a cinch we’re wasting our time,” the Post reporter commented. “Ten to one the minute that gate opens they’ll burn rubber. Hey, wait a minute!”

  Fran spoke quietly into her microphone. “The car carrying Molly Carpenter Lasch to freedom has just begun its journey.” Then she stared in astonishment at the sight of the slim figure walking beside the dark blue sedan. “Charley,” she said to the anchor at the morning news desk, “Molly Lasch is not in the car but walking beside it. I’ll bet she’s going to make a statement.”

  Strobe lights flashed on, tape rolled, microphones and cameras were jostled together as Molly Carpenter Lasch reached the gate, stopped, and watched as it swung open. She has the expression of a child seeing a mechanical toy operating for the first time, Fran thought. “It is as though Molly cannot believe what she is seeing,” she reported.

  When Molly stepped onto the road, she was immediately surrounded. She was jostled as questions were shouted at her. “How does it feel? . . . Did you think this day would ever come? . . . Will you visit Gary’s family? . . . Do you think your memory of that night will ever come back?”

  Like the others, Fran held out her microphone, but she deliberately stayed to one side. She was sure that whatever chance she might have for an interview in the future would be ruined if Molly perceived her as the enemy now.